She slammed out of the truck and marched up the front steps to the door and rang the bell.
“Can’t let yourself in?” he asked as he unfolded his long legs and got out to follow her up the steps. “Did you forget your key?”
“I don’t live here, I’m only staying for a bit.”
“Oh, aye,” he said, and nodded sagely. “Summering in the country at your best mate’s stately pile, are you? Must be exhausting being rich, I reckon, what with all of that travelling and jet-setting and whatnot. Wears a girl out.”
Marianne didn’t bother to correct him. Let him think what he wanted, she thought grimly as the door swung open and Mrs Fenwick regarded them both in surprise.
“Miss Holland, there you are. I was that worried after your last mishap, I was ready to call her ladyship and tell her you’d not come home yet, so I was.” She peered around Marianne at the truck. “Who’s this? And where’s the car?”
“The car…broke down.” Marianne regarded the farmer with a flinty look and dared him to say a word to the housekeeper about the car’s theft. “Watch my friend here while I go upstairs and fetch him the outrageous sum of twenty-five pounds for bringing me home.”
If she thought he’d be shamed into telling her to forget about the money, she was disabused of the notion when he gave her a cheeky smile and touched a finger to his forehead. “Much obliged.”
She pressed her lips together and stalked upstairs to her room.
Five minutes later, it was done. Marianne handed over the money and showed him to the door.
“Thank you for the ride,” she said, stiffly.
“It was my very great pleasure.” He folded the notes and tucked them into his jeans pocket.
Marianne turned to their guest. “Well, it’s been most interesting, Mr –?” She stopped as she realised she didn’t know his name.
“Just call me Farmer Brown,” he said, and cocked his brow. “Now if you ladies will excuse me, I’ve dogs and sheep to feed and a lamb to see to. A good day to you both.”
With a nod of his head, he returned to the truck and got inside, and drove away down the drive, back to Endwhistle.
“However did you meet that fellow?” Mrs Fenwick wondered.
“Honestly, Mrs F,” Marianne said as she made her way back upstairs, “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
***
After taking dinner in her room – there was little point in dining alone at that huge table – Marianne stood before the wardrobe and wondered what to wear for her interview tomorrow. Her clothes were filthy and her shoes – thanks to Brian and Danny and Farmer Brown – were now covered in mud.
More to the point – how would she even get to Endwhistle without a car?
“Miss Holland?” Mrs Fenwick knocked and thrust her head round the door. “You’ve a call from Lady Violet on line one.”
“Oh. Okay, thanks.”
Marianne went to the desk by the window and picked up the telephone receiver. What on earth could Lady V want? she wondered as she punched the blinking button. “Hello?”
“Hello, Marianne. How are you managing so far?”
Well, aside from the car breaking down and getting stolen by two not-so-Good-Samaritans, walking for miles in the rain and mud, and getting picked up by an extortionate uplands farmer, Marianne wanted to tell her, life is grand.
“I’m fine, thanks, Lady Violet,” she said instead. She couldn’t quite bring herself to tell her about the car just yet. “How’s Edinburgh?”
“Very well, thank you. I’m having a lovely visit with Lady Campbell. Although,” she added in a low, troubled voice, “that’s the reason I rang you. She’s feeling poorly and they’re putting her in hospital for some tests.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m sure she’s glad you’re there.”
“She is. In fact, I’ve changed my plans. I’ll be staying on here for at least another week. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” she assured the woman. “Mrs Fenwick and Bertie are taking good care of me. I should start my new job at the clinic in a week or two, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“Wasn’t your interview today?”
Marianne bit her lip. “It was. But the doctor got called away on an emergency and so I have to go back tomorrow.” Which was true. “Stay in Edinburgh as long as you need to, and don’t give me another thought.”
“Very well,” Lady Violet said, a trace doubtfully. “If you’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’m positive. Mum and Elinor will be here tomorrow, after all, so I’ll have all the company I need. And give my best wishes to Lady Campbell.”
After exchanging a few more polite pleasantries, Marianne rang off.
“Mrs Fenwick,” she called out as she ran down the stairs, “I’ve another teeny-tiny favour to ask…”
After Marianne confessed that Lady Violet’s car had been stolen and the incident reported to the police, Mrs Fenwick allowed that there was nothing more to be done and gave Marianne the use of their Peugeot.
“Only so you can go off to your interview, mind,” she added firmly. “No faffing about all over town. Petrol’s expensive.”
“So I’ve heard,” Marianne retorted.
“Only sixteen kilometres, she says! Petrol’s expensive, in case you didn’t know.”
Good thing she’d never see that money-grubbing cheapskate of a farmer again. Although, she admitted, he wasn’t so bad to look at. He was almost attractive. And his little Blackface lamb, Emily, was beyond adorable.
Too bad he was completely personality-challenged.
On Wednesday morning, with a full tank of gas and the phone number to Barton Park programmed in her mobile, Marianne headed back to Endwhistle and drove to the veterinary clinic.
“Hello, Miss Holland,” Lynn greeted her as she made her way across the crowded waiting room. If she noticed that Marianne wore the same outfit she’d worn the day before – freshly laundered, of course – or that her shoes still bore traces of mud, she made no comment. “Dr Brandon’s with Poppy – a border collie with an eye infection – but I’ll let him know you’re here. Please have a seat.”
With a nod of thanks, Marianne sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs. She hadn’t waited above fifteen minutes when the receptionist announced the vet was free for a few minutes between appointments and could see her.
She stood and made her way through the door the girl directed her through. “SURGERY”, it stated. “NO ADMITTANCE”.
With another breath for courage, she pushed it open and went inside the clinic proper. She saw more tiled flooring, and a surgery equipped with several treatment tables, x-ray machines, and a lot of other intimidating-looking equipment she didn’t recognise.
“Back here,” a gruff male voice called out from somewhere behind her.
She turned to see an office at the far end of the surgery, with a brass nameplate on the door – Dr M Brandon, RCVS. On unsteady legs, she made her way across the floor and came to a stop just inside the door.
When she saw him, sitting behind a desk heaped with folders and papers and forms,